


Spooky

by glasgowgirl92



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgowgirl92/pseuds/glasgowgirl92
Summary: Mulder and Scully solve a Halloween mystery.





	Spooky

Scully heard the screen door bang against the wall behind her.

“Mulder, this place better have a bathroom…”

“Uh, yeah just gimme a minute-” Mulder dumped his bag in the doorway and jogged down the porch steps, his shadow flickering past the glare of headlights. The car’s engine sputtered then abruptly cut out, plunging the room into darkness.

“Mulder?”

“God dammit,” came the muffled reply from outside. Scully fumbled for her flashlight, casting a white beam thick with dust motes across the cabin floor. She ran a hand along the nearest wall, then sighed. No power. Darkness seemed to pool in from outside, seeping through the crowded trees lining a thin dirt track. A narrow, settling creak worked its way through the rafters. She turned further into the house and followed it.

 

“Jesus…” 

In the back room sagged a double bed frame- no mattress. Scully huffed humourlessly. She lowered her flashlight, placing a hand on the thin pane of glass between her and the forest. Old Alton Bridge was surprisingly close to the freeway, though she wouldn’t have known it from here if not for the faint glow at the treeline, too artificial for a sunset. The faint rush she had mistaken for the river downhill was, in fact, the passing of steady traffic.

“Come and help me with these, will you?”

"What the hell are you doing out there-" Scully wheeled around to see Mulder, his arms full, struggling to kick his way past the stubborn screen door. Before she could take another step he'd tripped on the discarded holdall, dropping something with a hollow thud.

"Sorry, sorry, hang on a second-" In the gloom Scully heard him fumbling with something- a camping lantern flickered into life in his hands, and wedged precariously under one arm-

 

"Pumpkins?" 

He looked up at her with that stupid grin, the other- now slightly battered- pumpkin still rolling around at his feet.

"C'mon Scully, I'm just helping you get into the spirit!" Scully threw her flashlight onto the mouldy leather sofa.

"We're supposed to be investigating the disappearances of two teenage boys, not playing hooky at Camp Crystal Lake. I thought you were bringing supplies." Mulder set the lantern down and fished a hip-flask from his back pocket.

"Supplies," he said, waggling it at her. "Hey, think fast!" She did catch the pumpkin, but it knocked the wind out of her, sending her bumping into the door frame. She glared at Mulder, now pulling packets of marshmallows from the holdall. "Trust me, it'll get you in the mood."

"In the mood for what?"

 

***

 

“August 1938, local goat-herder Oscar Washburn is abducted by Klansmen and hung from Old Alton Bridge- but when Denton County’s friendly neighbourhood fascists look over to survey their work, all they see is an empty noose. Panicking, they decide to slaughter Washburn’s whole family for good measure. What happened to Washburn’s body is unknown, but since his death, sightings of a satyr-like creature with the body of a man and the head of a goat have been reported on Old Alton Bridge.”

A gust of wind swooned down the grate, making the fire spit.  

"You think these boys were abducted by a... goat-man."

Mulder shrugged, slopping a handful of pumpkin-innards into a bowl. 

"Occult activity's been reported on this site for decades: evidence of arcane rituals, blood magic-"

"Local kids with a camcorder spray-painting pentagrams on a Historic Preservation site?" Scully cut in drily. Mulder turned his gaze on her, the firelight striping his face.

"No pet shop within a hundred miles of this place will sell you a kitten, Scully- wanna know why? Local PD have found hundreds of dismembered cats in the woods around Old Alton Bridge." Scully made a face, eyeing the battered array of kitchen-utensils they'd scavenged from the kitchen.

"Animal sacrifice?" Mulder picked out a shape in the pumpkin's flesh with a rusted bread-knife. 

"Maybe they've graduated to teenage boys. Pick your weapon, Scully."

 

"So we're looking at some kind of organised religious cult, possibly with Klan connections- abduction and presumably murder. Shouldn't we turn this one over to Homeland Security?" She picked up an old steak knife and sunk the blade into the spot she'd marked as a triangular eye-socket. 

"Hate crimes are FBI jurisdiction." Scully raised an eyebrow.

"Mulder, you don't seriously expect me to believe you dragged me out to Texas because you think these attacks were racially-motivated. First of all, the missing boys are white." Mulder tossed a cut-out chunk of pumpkin into the fire.

"I think it's racially-motivated, alright."

"And it has absolutely nothing to do with this _goat-man_?"

"I think what goes around comes around, Scully, that's all. The families of those boys claim to be descendants of Oscar Washburn's murderers."

 

Scully sighed.

“Mulder, in spite of all that’s- beguiling- about the idea of reality itself rebelling against injustice… of a poetic retribution when things don’t work out the way we know they should… the truth is that sometimes bad things just happen, and there are no consequences for those responsible; no answers, regardless of the questions we ask. We’re compelled to create some kind of moral narrative around the unexplainable because we know in our hearts that there is none. _That’s_ what terrifies us.” Mulder watched her sawing ineffectively with the steak-knife.

“Who did you come as this year, Friedrich Nietzsche? C’mon Scully, you believe in the inherent justice of the universe- bad guys go to hell, good guys go to heaven-”

“What I believe about the nature of good and evil has no bearing on the pattern of a guilty man’s fingerprint or the shape of blood splatter on a wall. I follow the evidence; my beliefs are a part of who I am, not what I do.” As Scully wrenched the knife free it slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the stone hearth. She swore softly. Mulder leaned across her, picking it up by its blade.

“ _This_ isn’t a part of you?” He gave a kind of shrug- at the room; the case; the two of them in a deserted cabin on Halloween night, carving up an unanswerable question. His face was close to hers, in his eyes that look- the purity of his convictions, a flame that never trembled in the dark. His faith- stronger perhaps than hers had ever been- glimpsed on occasions when he looked though her into something not quite there. And sometimes when he looked at her like this. 

"Mulder, you know I don't believe in any of that spooky crap." She saw the rueful smile; felt it tug at the corner of her mouth. "But I believe in you." Mulder gave a soft huff of laughter.

“You think I’m more ‘beguiling’ than the Goatman? Don’t answer that.” His expression changed in the flickering light: the rise of his cheekbone and the soft curve of his lower lip seemed to warp, melting. She closed her eyes against the illusion.

“I think that no matter how overwhelming the evidence, no matter what the odds, we both recognise a greater truth. That there’s a part of us that will always want to believe. That has to believe.”

 

"Scully." She opened her eyes. He was watching her.

"Mulder."

“Are we still talking about the Goatman?”

She leaned across the shadowed space and kissed him.

 

***

 

Mulder's cheek was cool against her neck, his breath almost burning at the ridge of her collarbone. A shiver sent the collar of her silk blouse slipping down past her elbow.

"Scully-" she felt his voice, a rumble against her chest. 

She ran her fingers up his nape and into his hair, pushing him into her, his kiss at her throat. Her palm skidded on the mantle- with one fluid motion he pulled her into his lap, tugging the blouse over her head. The muscles of his arm pulled tight as he held her, one hand open on the curve of her spine. His pulse trembled on her skin. Gently she tipped his head back, her thumb pressed against his cheekbone. He looked up at her, lips parted. Always a question in the mouth of Fox Mulder.

"Yes," she answered simply, and pressed her lips against his. The sudden throb inside her as his mouth opened- the catch of his breath when her tongue touched his. She sank against him, feeling the thin fabric of her hose tear at the knee on rough floorboards. He was hard already, fingers pressing into her thigh as she rolled her hips forward and oh, the deep swell of that feeling that ebbed and returned, soft then almost painfully sharp. Hurriedly she popped the first few buttons at his collar, wresting his hands from her to get the shirt off.

She knew the feel of him by sight alone, worn into her by time: a thousand offhand glances; shoulders brushing, a touch on the arm or the small of the back.  Her fingers traced along his ribcage, the heel of her hand fitting smooth against his clavicle, pushing him down. She swept the hair from her face and sat back. His hands were on her thighs, a constant light movement. She unclasped her bra, letting it fall slowly. Watching his eyes. The long, lazy sweep of his gaze, betrayed by the way his lower lip trembled. He reached up, knuckles grazing along her side, his palm warm against her breast. Fingers tracing across her nipple as she breathed, and at the back of her neck now as she pressed down into him. She heard the soft moan in the back of his throat and chased it.

Mulder's strength dazed her as he pushed her to the side, onto her back. As he climbed on top of her she arched up, into the scent of clean sweat and warm skin, and the animal need to bite down, to sink her nails into the rolling plane of his shoulder blade. He bowed his head, breathing a half-kiss against the hollow between her breasts. His thumbs dug hard into the join between hip and thigh, nerves jolting down to her core. He pulled her skirt and underwear down clumsily, falling onto one elbow, and she felt a brief, disorienting spike of affection, a ridiculous urge to laugh. Then suddenly her breath felt raw and tangled again in her throat, head tipped back as he smoothed one hand along the inside of her thigh. His fingertips traced down her stomach, ghosting across her lips- all of her keenly, deliciously exposed. The firelight on her skin was nothing to the heat of his mouth, at first barely touching her.

"Oh-" the sound of her own voice shocked her in that firelit hush- the low rasp filling her mouth as her back arched. She felt his breath, shivering, before the hot stripe of his tongue. That feeling- that simmering almost-pain, the lurch of a missed step. The swirl of his tongue was too gentle- she felt her hips cant up to meet him, her fingers on the base of his skull, pushing down. He glanced up at her once, lifting her thigh against his shoulder and there, there-  

"Mulder-" she curled a fist into his hair, pulling him up by the nape of his neck. His breath hitched as she sucked at his swollen lower lip, tasting her own scent. It was easy to pit her weight against him, to shove him back until he was sitting against the armchair- easy to crawl into his lap, to take him in her hand and rub against him, to guide him into her just as she wanted. His breath was hot, moaned into her mouth. She rocked forward slowly, savouring the fullness of him; soothing the dark, tilting emptiness that built and broke as she moved. His soft touch became a grasping rhythm, fingers tangled in her hair, kisses nipped and sucked into her flesh. The fire roared at her back, turning skin to amber, banding blue-grey shadows where their bodies touched. Scully felt the heat rise like a fever, heard cries that sounded like her voice. Mulder tipped his head back to reach her, his kiss grazing the pulse at her throat and she felt herself unfolding, filled and overblown, her body shimmering outwards from itself. 

It was a moment before she felt herself breathing. 

  


***

  


_X-File #3010_

_Field Report_

_Prepared by Special Agent Dana Scully_  
  


_Missing teens Floyd Carlton and Wade Sherman were located alive and unharmed in a disused mine-shaft several miles south-west of Old Alton Bridge. Anterior to a full toxicology report, my initial examination suggests acute hallucinogenic intoxication, possibly linked to evidence of ritual activity on the site of the bridge. Blood found at the scene was determined to be non-human; most likely feline. Whilst Mayor John Horne and Sherriff Dwyght Jackson have been remanded in custody on suspicion of the abduction of a minor and attempting to pervert the course of justice, the boys' parents- and indeed the whole town- appear committed to a conspiracy of silence._

_Agent Mulder remains convinced that unexplained forces play a role in this case, and that their influence continues to plague the town of Denton. Local rumours of a "curse", exacerbated by the Carlton and Sherman families' continuing financial misfortunes, persist. As for the unknown assailant Agent Mulder and I encountered on Old Alton Bridge, it is my belief that an explanation will be found in the forthcoming toxicology report on Floyd Carlton and Wade Sherman. An initial survey of the local woodland revealed pervasive growth of Datura stramonium, colloquially known as "devil's snare": a powerful hallucinogen and deliriant. It is highly plausible that, during our investigation, we too became exposed to the psychotropic effects of this infestation._

_Agent Mulder believes_

 

Scully's pen stilled. She looked up from the draft in her notebook, pages fluttering in the new November wind. All Saints’ Day. From around the other side of the cabin she could hear the muffled thuds and slams of Mulder loading up the car. Two pumpkins sat on the veranda's edge, blackened grins beginning to sag a little- the rich, sweet smell, warmed by candlelight. 

 

_I believe in truth. I believe in justice. I also believe that human beings are the ones who create these things; who defend them, with our lives if necessary. I believe that the strength of one person's convictions, whilst it can never re-write the past, can change the future for us all. I believe that what is unexplained can still be understood; that the ultimate value lies not in answering the question, but in having the strength to ask it. I believe in what I do; what we do together. I believe that it's right._

  


"Hey, Scully!" She snapped the notebook shut. Mulder was hanging around the side of the house, one hand buried in the last remaining pack of marshmallows. "Quit doing your homework and help me load up."

"You shouldn't eat with your mouth full." She stowed the notebook in her coat as Mulder threw himself down onto the porch swing beside her.

"Oh, so you don't want one?" he shook the bag at her, leaning against her from knee to shoulder. Scully's lip quirked.

"You've gotta be careful what you ingest in this town."

 

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, the freeway rushing quietly just out of sight. The pines were black shadows against a yellowing sky. She felt rather than saw the turn of Mulder's head; the weight of his gaze.

"What we saw on the bridge-" Scully huffed, cutting him off before she had to hear it for the fifteenth time. 

"I still think the hallucinogenic properties of Datura stramonium provide a more rational-"

"And the prints on the bridge? The _hoof-prints,_ Scully?"

 

She shook her head, turning to face him now.

"What exactly is your theory, Mulder? You think Oscar Washburn's spirit, so contorted by the need for revenge, returns to this place to- to do what? Wreak havoc and misery in the lives of his murderers' descendants? Torturing their innocent families in a distorted mirroring of the violence done to Washburn's own wife and children? What happened to good guys going to Heaven?" She waited for him to sigh and roll his eyes, or grin that stupid, impervious sense of rightness at her like he always did. He just looked- solidly, placidly, always at her.

"I think that our memories of the people we love become... anchored to the places we shared with them. That what we call a 'ghost' can be something as innocuous as a familiar sound; a colour; the smell of rain on the sidewalk..." He leaned in close, enough for her to catch the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to his shirt. "I think Washburn is compelled to return to the only place where the people he loved live on: in the trees; the laughing river; the fertile soil. He died defending them- I think he returns to defend their memories."

Scully felt herself drawn suddenly, irresistibly into the crook of Mulder's shoulder. He rested his head against hers, his breath warm in her hair.

"It's like the Olympic National Forest out here," she said as the first stars shimmered just above the treeline. "Without the bugs." Mulder chuckled softly; she felt the hum of it her chest. "That old cabin, with the lightbulb..."

He pulled her close.

"I remember." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Buzzfeed Unsolved for information on the Goatman of Old Alton Bridge #shaniacs #heytheredemons #itsyaboy


End file.
